It's a Scary, Scary Thing
by NightGoddess
Summary: What's scarier than Magneto? What's stranger than Professor X having a bad hair day? Parent teacher conferences with the X-men's kids! Jott, RoLo, Jubby, Romy, Lancitty, Taotr, and other much more random couples. Read and Review. REVAMP.
1. Jott

Disclaimers: The originals are mine, no touchy. The canons are not. Help yourselves.

Author's note: These pairings? Random as hell I know. Also, the stories are not in chronological order.

* * *

**Name:** Andrew Russell Summers

**School Attending**: The Correctional Military Facility of Bayville

**Grade:** Fifth

**Father's name:** Scott Summers

**Mother's name:** Jean Grey-Summers

* * *

"Military Facility? That's not fair! Dad, tell her that's not fair!" Rusty begged, pointing at his mother.

"But, honey, it's the only other private school around here that you haven't gotten kicked out of! And we don't want you to go to public school," Jean explained patiently to her son.

"But military facility. Let me say that again, _facility_. That just says to me, Rusty will die!"

"He has a point. It's not even academy. Those people are freaky. You walk in and they have the rolled up papers." Scott paused to roll up his newspaper. "And they're like 'Stand up straight, soldier!'" He said smacking the air with the paper. He glanced at his wife who glared at him. "I'm gonna get something to eat." He mumbled, scratching his butt and heading for the kitchen.

Rusty looked the carpet. "I wish I hadn't seen that," he mumbled, but he shook his head and turned his mind back to the task at hand: pleading his way into public school.

"Mom, aren't you the one always going on about how 'if mutants are going to be accepted in society we have to start at the basic levels of public services, and yet you're keeping your own son from those basic levels. Makes you sound like a hypocrite," Rusty quirked a red eyebrow at his mother and crossed his arms. The argument was awesomely well thought for a ten year old

And stolen from Storm.

Jean blinked, not expecting such a well thought out comeback from her delinquent son. "Well, honey, we'd just rather that our children had a better education that most."

_How else am I gonna get into Harvard,_ Rusty thought, turning on his heel and storming out of the living room.

"I heard that!" Jean shouted after her son.

"Having a telepathic mother sucks!" Rusty shouted.

~The Next Morning

Rusty stared into his mirror in abject horror. "I ain't doing it!" He screamed at the top of his lungs.

Jean stuck her head into the room. "Yes, you are."

"Look at me, Mother!" Rusty said spinning around to face her. "What the heck is this? I look like a poster boy for the San Francisco Gay Day!"

"Rusty, we don't-"

"Come on, I look like a friggin' jackass!"

"Rusty!"

"This is the most disgusting thing that I have ever seen. I have seen pools of vomit that are prettier!" He tugged at the maroon blazer that he was wearing and unbuttoned it to reveal the lavender shirt underneath it. "Do you have any idea what Harley and Chloe are going to do to me when they see this?"

Jean sighed. "They won't say a thing."

Rusty sputtered. "Are we talking about the same people?"

Chloe Drake sat at the kitchen table. "Hey, I think my cereal's trying to tell me something. Look it says Oooooo."

Jubilee tilted her head back and narrowed her eyes. "Bobby, have you been letting Chloe watch Family Guy again?"

Bobby's eyes shifted guiltily. "Uhm, nooooo."

Jubilee looked at her husband. "Really, Bobby?"

"Of course not!" Bobby objected. "I would never allow my daughter to watch something with such content."

Jubilee looked at her daughter. "Honey, have you been watching Family Guy with Daddy?"

Chloe frowned slightly. "Is that show with Stewie?"

"Yes."

"Yep!"

Harley Logan sat picking at her shredded cheese. "I don't wanna eat this."

Logan looked at his daughter oddly. "You always have toast and cheese. Are you sick or something?"

Harley blew her nose so loud and so hard that it sounded like a goose honking. "Oh," was all Logan said. "Mother give anything to you yet?"

Harley extended her tongue to show that it was an unnatural shade of green. "I'll take that as a yes." Logan grumbled, wondering if Storm's herbal remedy had anything to do with how bad Harley was feeling.

All the conversation in the kitchen cut off abruptly when Rusty slouched into kitchen. Chloe and Harley exchanged glances and attempted to smother their laughter behind their hands. Jubilee visibly recoiled at the unfortunate sight.

"Oh just laugh," Rusty snapped, slamming his backpack down on the table and glaring at his friends. Harley and Chloe's laughter erupted. Chloe nearly fell out of her chair.

"What happened to you?" Logan and Bobby asked in complete horrified unison.

"My mother," Rusty gritted out.

"You got kicked out the Prepatory already?" Bobby asked. "I'm impressed. I couldn't have done it that fast if I tried." Jubilee kicked her husband under the table. "Ow!" Bobby cried rubbing his shin and glared at his wife.

~Several Weeks Later

Jean pulled her gas guzzling SUV to a stop in the mostly empty parking lot. "Scott, don't look like that." She said. "This is the first time we haven't had a bad report!"

"Yeah, that's what I'm worried about," Scott grumbled, slamming the door to the passenger side.

Jean rolled her eyes and the two walked toward the squat dismally gray building that had been their son's educational home for the past few months. The front door appeared to be made out of nothing but Plexiglas and black iron bars. No handle, no crease to show where the door might open. Only a black intercom was mounted beside. Warily, Scott pushed the button.

A bored, nasal voice bleated out. "What're you here for?"

"Parent-Teacher conference," Scott replied.

"Names?"

"Scott Summers and Jean Grey-Summers."

A pause and then, "Please stand away from the door." Jean and Scott both took a step back and with the grinding of gritty gears the glass split apart and the bars raised. "Enter now," the voice ordered and then as if sensing their hesitation. "Now!"

The two X-men hurried through the door, and as soon as their feet touched the mat on the other side of the entrance. The black bars came rushing down with a screech causing both to jump.

"I don't like this place," Jean murmured.

"Oh, yes, because our child is too precious for public school. Like this place is better," Scott said out of the corner of his mouth.

They came to a desk that was surrounded with TV screens, which were presumably hooked to the video surveillance system except one that was playing a screaming match that could only belong to a soap opera. Two rent-a-cops and an older woman with a gigantic red beehive and cakes of makeup were both watch that particular screen with rapt attention.

"Excuse me," Jean smiled brightly, "But-"

The secretary raised a long tapered finger with almost equally long red tapered fingernail. "Hold on one second, honey."

The screams faded into, "Mondays this fall" and the secretary swiveled her chair around to face Jean and Scott. "Yes, how can I help you?"

"I'm Jean and this is my husband Scott, and we're here for a Parent-Teacher conference. Last name: Summers."

The two rent-a-cops froze and jerked up as if something had sent them into high alert. The secretary looked up at them over her blue cat's eye glasses. "You're Andrew Russell's parents?"

" Well, yes." Jean frowned.

"God bless you," was all the secretary said. "His classroom's all the way at the end of the hallway, last door on your right."

Scott noted that she hadn't looked at list or at the computer files. But maybe she knew all the kid's classes, Scott thought, trying to be optimistic, a hard thing to do when his son was involved. And It was a small school, er, facility, er whatever.

"What do you think she meant by 'God bless you?'" Jean asked interrupting Scott's mental pep talk.

We're probably about to find out, he thought, but merely shrugged at answer to his wife's question. He stepped forward toward the door and knocked on it.

There was a grumble on the other end of the door that seemed to be saying "Dumb pin," but Scott decided that made no sense and opened the door. A huge bear like man, with shoulders that looked like someone had roped several linebackers together and a gigantic mustache was sitting crouched behind the desk.

"So you're Summers' parent, are you?" His voice had a very noticeable Texan twang. His black beady little eyes roved over the two of them. "Well, you look like fine normal people, but that's usually the case. Even your son looks sane when you first meet him, but then he's got them eyes." Sarge widened one of his eyes so that it looked like it might very well bulge out of its socket.

"Have a seat," he motioned to two chairs that were next to his large green, duct tape patched, swivel chair.

"Now, I don't like bandying around the point, Mr. and Mrs. Summers, so I'll just get right to the point. You have a very bright boy, extremely intelligent, and creative too. He's also very popular. Everybody likes him. Not many people know there are four types of intelligence and they are creative intelligence, people intelligence, and book smart intelligence, and common sense. And not many people have all four. But Summers does and that's a right good achievement."

Jean was confused but smiling slightly at the compliment. "So, Rusty is behaving himself then?" she ventured slowly, hopefully.

Sarge stared at Jean for a moment and then began laughing harder than Scott had previously thought possible. About five minutes later, Sarge wiped tears from his eyes. "Like I said, Mr. and Mrs. Summers, I don't like to mince words and I guess the easiest way to explain this would be . . . your son's the spawn of the Devil."

"I beg your pardon?" Jean exclaimed indignantly, shooting up even straight in the chair.

"Now, I meant that no offense to yourselves," Sarge twanged. "But I have taught kids that have holes in strange places for rings and are inked all over with weird pictures. But never have I ever had a student that was as inherently evil as Andrew Russell Dane Summers. He's like, I dunno, Darth Vader or something.

"Are you sure you didn't sign your first born child over to evil?" He asked.

Jean's mouth worked up and down as if she was trying to muster up the right words.

But completely unperturbed, Sarge continued on. "But everything will be all right. I was the same at his age, but my parents wisely made the choice to enroll me a school much like this and now I'm just fine. I thank you kindly for your time, but I'm expecting another set of parents in two minutes if you don't mind?"

And before they quite knew it had happened, they had been ushered out the door and it had been closed firmly behind him.

In the first time since he had met her, Jean was absolutely silent. She didn't say a word as they walked down the hallway, out to the car, or on the twenty-minute drive home. She didn't even open her mouth until they were in their room.

"We're enrolling him in public school tomorrow," Jean finally managed to spit out after almost three hours of silence.

Rusty, whose ear was pressed against his parents' door, silently grinned. He got to his feet and trotted to the end of the hallway where Chloe's room was located.

"Ladies," he grinned. "You are evil geniuses."

Chloe and Harley looked up from the Clue board. "Tell us something we don't know. Wanna be Mustard?" Chloe drawled, pushing her glasses up her nose. Harley just smirked.

Rusty sank to the ground and grabbed the yellow piece. His two best friends were really evil at heart, but that's why he loved them.


	2. Jubby

Name: Chloe Rachel Drake

School: Bayville Elementary

Grade: First

Father's name: Robert "Bobby" Louis Drake

Mother's name: Jubilation Lee-Drake

* * *

Chloe marched into the middle of the foyer and cleared her throat. "DAAAAAAAAAAAD!" the six year old screamed as loudly as she could. She knew the only person who would be home and within earshot would be her father.

Bobby, rumpled and disheveled, appeared at the top of the staircase. His hair stuck up at odd angles and his eyes were bleary as if he had just awoken from a nap. Which he had. "What's the matter, sweetie?" He asked rushing down to his daughter.

Chloe looked more like her father than her mother. She'd inherited his light brown locks and blue eyes.

"I got a note," she announced, holding up a plain piece of paper folded over and sealed with a bright yellow smiley face sticker.

Bobby took it and looked at it, inspecting it from every angle, but not opening. "Dad," Chloe asked tugging on his shirt.

"Hm?" He asked, holding the paper up to the light—handwritten.

"Do we have cookies?"

"Come on," Bobby told his daughter and sticking the paper in his back pocket before taking his daughter to the kitchen for her after school snack.

Bobby poured milk into a small plastic cup for Chloe and set four Chips Ahoy cookies onto a plate and set them on the table.

Chloe climbed into her chair and began nibbling on her afternoon snack as she chattered away happily about her day.

"Who's GJ?" Bobby asked after the name had been dropped after several times.

"My friend." Chloe shrugged.

"Is he a boy?"

Chloe gnawed on the edge of a cookie while she looked at Bobby. "Why?"

"Just wondering." Bobby brushed it off easily and stole one of the cookies.

"HEY!" Chloe yelled.

Bobby shoved the entire cookie in his mouth and tried to look innocent. "What?" He asked.

"You stole my cookie!"

"No, I didn't!"

"Daddy," Chloe crossed her arms, "I can see it."

Jubilee came into the kitchen, setting a bag down on the counter. "Hi, sweetheart." She said kissing the top of Chloe's head.

"Mommy, Daddy stole my cookie!" She pointed one chubby finger at him.

"No, I didn't," Bobby repeated, although he wasn't quite done finishing chewing. Chloe glared at him. "You want it back?" He rolled his mouth around and made like he was going to spit.

"EEEEEEEEEEEEW!" Chloe squealed.

"Bobby!" Jubilee rolled her eyes. It was like raising two children sometimes. She fished another cookie out for her daughter.

"Oh, yeah, Mommy, I got a note from my teacher."

"Where is it, sweetie?"

"Daddy has it." Chloe shrugged, taking the cookie. She swung her legs around and jumped from the chair and left the kitchen. Pulling the note from his pocket, Bobby set it on the table and finished Chloe's milk for her.

"What does it say?" Jubilee eyed the note distastefully. Although neither would say it, they were both thinking about the many notes Rusty had brought home.

"I dunno," Bobby shrugged, pouring more milk into a cup. He set the milk back in the fridge. "I didn't read it."

Jubilee sat down and tilted her head to the side. "You didn't read the note, Bobby?"

"Nope," Bobby wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

Jubilee leaned in close to her husband, "Bobby," she whispered as if she was sharing secret information, "you're a grown up, now. You can read the teacher's notes now!" Her voice escalated. She grabbed the note off the table and tore it open, severing the sticker into two.

Her eyes scanned the paper for a moment. "Huh."

"Was that a good 'huh' or bad 'huh?" Bobby asked, leaning forward.

"What?"

"There are good huh's and bad huh's, which kind of huh was it?"

"It was a huh. It was totally neutral."

"Oh-kay. What'd the note say?"

Jubilee shrugged and took the plate and set in the dishwasher. "Her teacher wants to talk us. She said she wasn't in trouble, but 'your attendance could greatly influence Chloe's learning process.'"

Bobby blinked. "And she teaches first graders?"

"Are you free on Thursday?" Jubilee started, "Oh, never mind, you don't do anything."

"Yes, I do. I-, well, I, then it- I hate it when you're right."

~Thursday

"Well, you're the one who taught him how to light linoleum on fire!" A familiar angry voice barked.

"Holy crap is that John and Wanda?" Bobby asked, looking around the parking lot.

"Keep your head down and maybe they won't notice us," Jubilee ordered quietly.

Bobby was silent for a whole six seconds before. "You don't think they're gonna make us sit in the kiddy chairs do you?"

Jubilee sighed. "Why did I marry you?" She asked as she knocked on the door.

"Because, the se-"

The door swung open.

"X," Bobby finished.

"Mr. and Mrs. Drake?" Miss Blake asked. She was young, blond, and wore cherry red lipstick that seemed to accentuate her wide smile.

Jubilee nodded. Miss Blake did the seemingly impossible and smiled even broader. She stepped back. "Please, come in and sit down." She gestured to the chairs that she had pulled over.

"Kiddy chairs," Bobby murmured eyeing the blue chair that he was expected to squat over.

Jubilee smacked her husband in the ribs and settled herself (uncomfortably) in the hard plastic chair.

"Is there something wrong with Chloe?" Jubilee ever the diligent mother asked. Hey, one of them had to be responsible, and it obviously wasn't going to be Bobby.

"Oh, no she's really quite a joy to have in class, quite the class clown. We do enjoy her jokes."

Bobby beamed proudly. "She gets it from me."

"Really, Bobby? I had no idea," Jubilee retorted sarcastically.

"But, uhm," Miss Blake broke in, still smiling broadly. "She seems to have a slight . . . vision problem."

"But she got a 20/20 on her school eye exam," Jubilee questioned confused.

Miss Blake nodded. "I know very well, Mrs. Drake, I saw the papers myself, but I think it would be best if you had a professional look into it. She might just be a very good guesser, but she has problems seeing the chalkboard."

"I'll make an appointment for an eye exam as soon as we get home," Jubilee shook her head. "Does anyone in your family have eye problems, Bobby?"

Bobby frowned slightly considering. "Well my Uncle Billy does, but he's only related through marriage."

Miss Blake leaned forward on her desk. "I have another question: Does your family have any history of ADD?"

Bobby looked at the teacher. "Yeah, we add, subtract, multiply and divide just like everyone else. Why you spelling it?"

Jubilee sighed and hid her face in her hand. "M-O-R-O-N." She shook her head and then looked up. "Apparently, yes."

"While you're making the eye appointment, you might want to make one with a specialist," Miss Blake offered, pushing a card towards Jubilee.

Jubilee flipped it over and took a pen from her purse and wrote a note to herself on the back. "Eye doctor, specialist, lawyer."

"Lawyer?" Bobby echoed.

"Yeah, I just realized I need to marry someone who has a brain and for that to happen you either have to die, or we have to get a divorce. I think it'll be much more comfortable for the second to happen."

She left the room.

"Well, that was stupid of me."

Miss Blake agreed silently.

Bobby stood up as if to make sure his wife was really gone. "Miss Blake, I have a very important question."

"Yes, Mr. Drake?"

"Do you know anything about a 'GJ' character?"

"GJ's a very nice boy."

"Boy? What? A boy? Chloe's not old enough to hang out with boys. When I was in first grade, girls still had cooties!"

"You thought we had cooties in tenth grade too," Jubilee had returned. "Come on, or do you want to walk home?"

"Hold on!" he cried, rushing out after her. "Were you serious about the lawyer bit?"


	3. RoLo

Name: Harley Kissa Logan

Grade: Sixth

School: The Prewer Academy for Gifted Children

Father's name: Logan

Mother's name: Ororo Munroe

* * *

Logan looked at his children, all four of them. The boys, Christopher, Quinton, and Zach, looked antsy, all three of them ready to run off and cause trouble, no doubt, but trying to maintain a look of wholesome patience as their father inspected them.

"All right, here's some money, don't do anything illegal, do not bother anyone, and watch your sister."

Chris groaned. "Daaaaaaad."

"That doesn't mean you have to stalk her, just know where she is, all right?"

"All right," Chris sighed, more to be annoying than anything. Harley had a rather specific M.O. when it came to the mall, which was cross the parking lot and go into Barnes and Noble where she could spend a blissful hours lost among the piles of books.

"Come on, Logan, we're going to be late," Ororo urged.

"Behave!" Logan barked once more at his children, wistfully thinking of the days that he had been able to bribe them with ice cream. Of course, now he had something just as good. "Or extra danger room sessions!" he called to his sons retreating backs.

All three stopped in their tracks and looked back at him before hurrying on their way. Logan hoped everyone visiting the mall would be slightly safer for his threatening. He turned his attention to his youngest child, who was sitting on the bench looking surly. She was good at that.

"Be good," he told her wearily although there was no need. Harley was generally able to behave herself in public, but like every other child at the mansion, she knew exactly how to be a terror.

"Of course," She agreed with a despondent shrug and watched her parents exit the mall for her parent teacher conference.

The drive to the Prewer Academy for Gifted Children was nearly a forty-five minute trek out of the city. They parked the car in the lot and began the walk up the cobblestone driveway.

"I hate these things," Logan grumbled, taking the cigar out of his mouth.

"Then you should stop smoking them," his wife teased gently.

"Ha ha ha," Logan grumbled.

"You should probably put that out," Ororo suggested as they walked up the loose gravel driveway.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." Logan agreed, sticking his cigar into a birdbath and tucking it back into his pocket. "I really hate parent-teacher conferences."

"I know, Logan," Ororo sympathized. Harley was his one, his only darling daughter—Daddy's little girl, and he didn't like hearing one bad word against her. Not that Harley wasn't used to taking jabs, she had three older brothers and being the runt of the mansion was often the brunt of jokes and teasing, which were rebutted by her own sharp tongue. Her mind was quick witted and wicked.

And was the smartest kid at the mansion, no doubt. Her kindergarten teacher had suggested she be placed in a private school that would better suit her needs.

The two entered the first room on Harley's schedule. Harley's homeroom and English teacher: Mrs. Talonne.

Logan knocked at the door. "Enter!" a dramatic drawling voice ordered.

Logan's hand froze on the doorknob.

Ororo raised a white brow at her husband, "Opening the door anytime soon?"

"Isn't she the one Harley said she'd like to tear her small intestine out through her mouth?"

"Just open the door, Logan." Of course, this was that teacher, but Ororo didn't need her husband in an even worse mood than he already was.

"All right I will, but I would like to state for the record that this was all against my will," Logan declared as he turned the door handle.

A tall woman dressed in a blue business suit, with no nonsense flat-heeled Oxfords and a strict bun sat in a high wing back chair. Half-moon glasses were placed half way down her nose as she inspected the couple before her. The rather odd couple before her.

A statuesque dark skinned woman with white hair and a short burly man with wild black hair.

"That explains a lot," Mrs. Talonne said as she inspected the parents before her.

Logan and Storm looked at each other. "What does _what_ explain exactly?" Ororo asked pointedly. She didn't exactly like being judged so immediately.

"Sit, sit, sit There is much to talk about." She waved one hand with talon like red nails at a pair of chairs that were placed in front of her large mahogany desk.

"I'm beginning to see why Harley would like to gut her," Logan mumbled as he sat down.

"Logan," Ororo scolded half-heartedly. She knew she couldn't stop him and she was beginning to wonder whether or not Harley did have a reason to make some not so idle threats.

"I wonder if you have noticed a certain disability of your daughter's?" Mrs. Talonne started without preamble.

"What do you mean?" Logan demanded immediately.

"Ah, I'll take it that you haven't. I suppose the best thing to do is read you a part of her writing journal out loud to you." She pulled out the small yellow and red notebooks that every school in the Northern-Atlantic seemed to have no matter what kind of school you were in.

Peering through her glasses, she began carefully, slowly turning pages carefully studying each one for a moment before shaking her head and turning to the next page.

Logan slouched over even farther in his seat, if that was indeed possible. "You'd think that you'd have this marked or something," he said sarcastically, drumming his fingers against his upper arm.

Mrs. Talonne looked up at him imperiously. "I was operating on the assumption that you would have noticed Harley is out of touch with reality."

Logan blinked. "What," He growled, "do you mean by that?"

Mrs. Talonne flipped the book over and steepled her fingers. "She is a bright child, but her fancy has a habit of running away with her. I know she made mention of having a purple talking rabbit with bat wings named Jasper."

Ororo tried to interrupt, "But she—"

With a panache and simplicity that showed how often she did this sort of thing, Mrs. Talonne cut in, "I know it's very hard to admit that one's child has any sort of problems, but I think that you can't let her delusions and daydreams control her mind."

Ororo tried again. "But she actually—"

Still ignoring her, Mrs. Talonne trekked onwards, "I suggest you seek professional help before things get any worse. If things continue to progress they way they are, Harley could very well end up the crazy old bag lady muttering about unicorns and fairies in addition to purple talking rabbits."

Ororo opened her mouth again to get a word in edgewise and to explain that, Harley did, in fact, have a purple rabbit with black wings and that he could, indeed, talk, and had a personality all his own. One of Hank's and Forge's experiments gone awry . . .very, very awry, but Harley had taken it, and more importantly, Jasper had taken to her, and thus the two had been together ever since. However, Ororo wasn't sure that telling this woman any of that would make things any better.

"Did she mention it was carnivorous?" Logan asked lightly. There was a smirk playing around his lips and he very well intended to have some fun with the teacher.

Mrs. Talonne blinked several times in rapid succession. "What?"

"It's carnivorous, you know a meat eater, likes T-bone steaks. Not to say that it won't eat normal rabbit food, but, who doesn't love a good steak?"

"So, she's told you about Jasper?" Mrs. Talonne asked slowly.

"Yeah. Of course I've seen him a couple of times. He lives under her bed. So what I'm trying to say here is that Harley isn't crazy or demented or whatever else you might be thinking she is, 'cause it's all true." His voice was just menacing enough to show that the subject was closed.

He leaned back in the chair, "Anything else you wanna talk about?"

Ms. Talonne looked like a balloon that had quickly deflated. "No, not particularly."

"All right then, I have left my children without supervision in a public place so I would like to keep these meetings as quick as possible. So may we move on?"

"Yes, of course."

Logan and Ororo stood. "So what did you think Logan?"

"I may have to hurt Forge when I get home."

The stops to Harley's other teachers were relatively uneventful, and the two X-men were extremely glad to go back to the mall to pick up their children and head home.

"I can't believe it," Chris mumbled, pacing back and forth. "It's just not possible. She was right there." He raised his hand to his mouth and began biting his nail. "Oh, man, Dad is going to kiiiiiill us!" He moaned.

Quinton, the middle brother and the voice of reason, looked up from _Vegan Alternatives: A Guide To Eating Right_. "Will you stop shouting? She has to be around here somewhere."

"Oh, yeah, shouldn't be too hard to find her . . .in the two story building… with café." Zachary chirped sarcastically.

"Well, here come Mom and Dad," Quinton said, placing the book back on the shelf.

"We're dead," Chris proclaimed, throwing his hands into the air.

"Let's," Logan started before he noted his sons' guilty expressions. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing, nothing's the matter!" Chris responded quickly. "Hey, why don't you two sit down and have nice cup of coffee, and we're going to go find a book that I need."

Logan eyed his eldest. "Since when do you read?" He asked Chris.

"Why, Dad, I always read!" Chris objected. Zach snorted, which earned him in an elbow in the stomach.

Logan raised an eyebrow again. "Right. Where's Harley?"

Chris glanced down at the floor. "Well, uhm, you see we kinda lost her."

"You WHAT?" Logan and Ororo shouted at the same time.

"How do you lose your little sister?" Logan demanded.

Zach shrugged. "It was really easy actually! We looked away and then poof! Turned around, and she was gone!"

"All we ask for you to do is to watch your sister and just know where she is most of the time, and you can't even do that," Ororo began.

"What's going on?" a voice asked.

"Oh just yelling at your brothers for losing you," Logan responded calmly turning to look at his daughter.

"Oh my God!" Chris babbled grabbing Harley by the shoulders. "Where were you?"

"I was getting checked out." She said, holding up the bag. She shook her head. "Can we leave now?"


	4. Romy

Name: Ryan Jeremy LeBeau

Grade: 3

Father's name: Remy LeBeau

Mother's name: Rogue LeBeau

School: New Orleans Public Elementary School

Rogue stood one hand on ample hip as she surveyed the wreckage that was her son's room. She brushed a lock of brown and white hair out of her face before carefully taking a step into the room, hoping that it wasn't too much of a biohazard.

"Ah can't believe that we've only been here three months and this place is already trashed," Rogue breathed, trying to avoid piles of anything that might squish. "Well, he does have a gift for that. At least he hasn't blown anything up, yet."

Something rustled under the stack of papers. Cautiously, having no idea what might be in Ryan's room, she carefully peeled off a math test and several old pieces of homework to uncover a small green turtle. She looked at the aquarium and then at the turtle and decided she did not want to know.

"All right, Gazpacho, do ya have any idea where Ryan's hidden his backpack?" She asked as she gently placed the turtle back into its imitation habitat.

Gazpacho looked at her forlornly, a look that all turtles were extremely capable of demonstrating before heading for his food dish.

Rogue sighed and continued to scan the room. The lyrics from How the Grinch stole Christmas came to mind, "Wouldn't touch him with a thirty-nine and a half foot pole." How aptly it could be applied to her situation.

She shook her head and after several moments managed to dislodge Ryan's Batman backpack from the corner of his desk and a bucket of Legos. Shaking her head, Rouge made a mental note to make her son clean up his room . . . or else.

Rogue set the oddly heavy and squished backpack on the table and opened it. There was an odd smell lingering on the interior. It smelled like Gambit's gumbo . . . and duck food.

Rogue decided that once again she did not want to know, as long as there wasn't the smell of pot or other illegal substances wafting from her son's things, it was better to just not find out.

However, the smell did nothing to make sure Rogue put her hand inside of the bag. She found herself wishing for a pair of her old gloves.

Quit being a baby, Rogue, she admonished herself and she plunged her hand into the pack. A much battered math book, a notebook, several pencils, a broken pen, and a dirty Kleenex later, Rogue had retrieve what had once been a folder. Now it was more of a foldable pocket with strips hanging from it. But sure enough inside were several pieces of paper.

She managed to discard most of them except for two, a permission slip and a letter home.

Gambit and Ryan both sat cross-legged in front of the television both absorbed in a video game that the two boys had rented on Friday afternoon.

"Ryan!" She barked.

"Hold on a sec, Mom. Jus' lemme finish kickin' dad's butt," Ryan called in a voice that made Rogue wonder what Gambit's voice sounded like at that age. The same Cajun accent hung on every one of the slightly butchered syllables.

"What's dis nonsense?" Gambit asked looking scandalized as he turned to face his son.

"Rule number un, dad, don' take y'r eyes off de road!" Ryan crowed sliding past the finish line. "I win!" He said, throwing his hands in the air.

He jumped up and trotted over to Rogue obediently. "Yes, Mother?"

"When was Ah gonna get these?" She asked, brandishing the two papers under her son's nose.

"Eventually?" Ryan tried, smiling weakly at his mother.

Rogue pursed her lips and crossed her arms.

"I forgot!" Ryan defended himself.

"Dat sentence c'n get y'in a lot of trouble someday," Gambit mumbled, trying to figure out how to start a new game.

Rogue glared at Gambit. "Ya should know."

Gambit decided it would be a good idea to shut up at that point and went back to fiddling with the game.

Ryan looked between his parents and then decided to just stay out of it. Rogue was still glaring at Gambit a little, but she refocused on her son.

"Just make sure, ya give me papers next time." Rogue sighed before turning and exiting the room.

Ryan let out a breath of relief and headed back to the TV. "Dat was easier den I t'ought."

"F'r y'," Gambit mumbled, wondering what laid in store for him later and suppressing a grimace as he steered his car around the track.

Rogue grabbed her purse. "Gambit!" She yelled.

"Oui, coming," Gambit said appearing at the bottom of the stairs, tugging his trench coat on. "Y'ready?"

Rogue nodded, pulling her coat hood up. It was a rainy day in New Orleans and the LeBeaus splashed through puddles as they walked the short three-block distance to the elementary school.

It was so humid, Rogue could almost feel her hair frizzing as the two entered the school. "Ah wish Ah had a brush."

"Y'look fine," Gambit told his wife absently, stopping to look at some first grade art. "Are y'sure we aren' in a modern art museum?" he asked, leaning in closer to a painted picture as he tried to make out anything that the streaks resembled. "D'y' know what dis migh' be?" He asked.

"It's a forest, Remy," Rogue told him.

Gambit tilted to his head to the side and was suddenly able to make out the brown of tree trunks and the green stuff was foliage and grass. "Huh."

"Y'shoul' know, swamprat, that's what your painting looks like. Even when it's all one color." She said off handedly, referring to the master bedroom painting fiasco.

"Dat was an accident." Remy tried to defend himself, although he knew it was true, but the Cajun was unlikely ever to admit it. This was something that annoyed Rogue to no end, but she had said "I do" to the man and then had his child, so it was a trivial annoyance that she would put up with for the next . . . Rogue stopped that particular train of thought. It was depressing sometimes.

Rogue stopped in front of door that was covered in a collage of frogs, toads, newts, and salamanders. There was little space other than the small rectangular window that had been left uncovered and the door handle.

Remy tilted his head to the side and began a staring contest with a tree frog and was rather surprised when the door swung open to reveal a youngish male teacher.

Gambit jerked back and then smirked. "Hi."

Rogue sighed and rolled her eyes. "Ah'm Ms. LeBeau and this is the Missus."

Gambit, who had gone back to staring at the tree frog, turned back to his wife. "Say what?"

"I thought I got away from that when I moved from San Francisco, but whatever," the teacher smiled and threw his hands up. "Come on in."

"What is dat?" Remy asked pointing to the fenced in area covered in wood shaving and housing a large . . . .thing.

"Oh, that's GIR," Mr. Austin shrugged.

"And what exactly is GIR?" Gambit asked.

"He's a wombat." Mr. Austin nodded to punctuate the sentence.

"A wombat?" Gambit repeated nonplussed.

"Yes, a wombat."

"What's a wombat?"

"That's a wombat."

"I know dats a wombat, but what is a wombat exactly."

"Oh," Mr. Austin shrugged. "It's a marsupial, lives in Australia."

"Den what's one doin' 'ere?"

"The science class gave it to me."

"Why?"

"Hell if I knew," Mr. Austin shrugged again before realizing what he had just said and cringed. "Snot." He shook his head. "I'm not supposed to teach small children. I'm supposed teach high schoolers, but we just moved here for my wife's job and I can't get a position at a high school." He stared off into the distance; glass eyed clearly remembering the day of old with more mature students. He shook himself back into reality. "Sorry. So, uhm, yeah . . ." he glanced around the room. "Oh, yeah, please, sit down."

Gambit pulled a chair closer to Rogue and she sat down with a quiet sigh. Gambit shrugged off his coat and hung it over the back of the chair before settling himself down. Mr. Austin leaned against his desk, long legs stuck out in front of him. He pushed his long brown hair out of his blue eyes and smiled disarmingly looking almost sane for a moment.

"So you're Ryan's parents," he stated.

"Yes," Rogue jumped in before Gambit could say anything that would prolong the meeting with snide replies.

"Gooood," Mr. Austin dragged out the word slightly. "Uhm, okay, I've been trying to think of way to say this that doesn't make me sound insane or just plain stupid and I have come to the conclusion that there is no way to say it without doing either of those two things so uh, here it goes: Ryan needs to leave the duck at home."

Just as Mr. Austin had warned the parents, this did, indeed, sound stupid.

"Beg pardon?" Rogue asked.

"Ryan brings his duck to school. I think it needs to stay at home. If there's some particular reason why it can't be left at home then I understand, but uhm it's a bit disruptive."

"The duck?" Remy repeated.

Mr. Austin's eyes darted back and forth. "Yeah, the duck. It's a bird, has white feathers, yellow bill and legs, and quacks. You know what I'm talking about?"

"Ya let him take the duck to school?" Rogue asked Gambit incredulously. She whipped around to explain to Mr. Austin, "Ah work. He's supposed to see Ryan out the door.

"Ah still can't believe you let him take the duck to school."

"I didn' know."

"How can ya not know? Ya put him out the door everyday? Ya can't tell if he goes to the back door and picks up a duck? Ya don't notice the darn thing is missing?" She asked.

"I have a very busy day," Gambit attempted to defend himself.

"Doing what? Watching your soaps?"

Where is some popcorn when you need it? Mr. Austin wondered. He'd forgotten how much fun it was to watch someone, other than himself, argue with their wife or husband. And speak of the devil, the phone sitting in the corner of his desk rang. "Hello? Hold on a minute." He covered the receiver with one hand and

"Uh, hey, hey, hey!" he cut in interrupting the arguing couple. "I need to argue with my wife for a moment. Actually the duck thing was the only thing I thought was necessary to go over. Ryan's fine."

Rogue and Gambit got up and started down the hallway. "F'rgot my coat. Hold on a minute."

He returned to the classroom and carefully made his way over to his coat.

". . .I don't know if we need bread. I'm not at home . . . well, just buy some and if we have some at home, we'll freeze it or something. . . .Pickles? Why're you looking at pickles? We don't like pickles. . . .What else do you need? Jelly! Woman, what are you making? You're not pregnant are you? . . . I'm just saying that's one screwed up shopping list. Jazzy, honey, I didn't. . . .Damn."

"Couch?" Gambit asked.

"Most likely." Mr. Austin tugged on his ear. "Know a good florist?"

"Oui, mon ami, I am surprisingly well-acquainted with a good florist. Got a pen?"

Mr. Austin handed the Cajun a pen and watch him scribble down a number. "Thank you," Mr. Austin said looking at the number.

"No problem. Dere's dis great place to get chocolate down on forty-second street." Gambit told the younger man. "Y'r couch uncomfortable?"

"Very."

"Need a good furniture store?"

"Can't hurt. I see myself sleeping on it a lot."


	5. Chagma

Name: Samuel David Starsmore

Grade: 4

Father's name: Jonothan Starsmore

Mother's name: Amara Starsmore

School: Picadilly Public Primary

A black haired little boy trudged his way home under the dreary gray afternoon sky. Small, skinny, hands shoved in pockets, he looked remarkably cynical and grumpy for a nine year old. However, this is what Sam was good at.

"There he is!"

Sam whipped around and saw Casper Hall, Mike Carpenter, and Harris Adams behind him. "Great!" He exclaimed sarcastically. So came the question of the day: Fight or flight.

Sam might not be able to remember how to multiply two digit numbers by other two digit numbers, it didn't take him a long time to pull up the mathematical sequence: 3 1pain.

In a grand display of common sense that most frat boys would be unable to comprehend, Sam turned back and his short little legs began to pump. He could hear the clack as the plastic ends on his shoelaces hit the ground. "Great, just my luck," he puffed. "If I'm gonna have bad luck, it might as well be complete crap."

The shoelace tangled around his right ankle, jerking him down onto his side in mid stride. He hit the curb and ended up falling into a puddle. This was not an amazing feat to accomplish; it had been one of England's famous rainy days, and Sam had never had good luck so this all added up to the fact that it was inevitable for Sam not to fall in a puddle.

What's up with the math references?

The three boys trample to a stop, staying on the sidewalk and staring down at Sam. "Now what are we suppose to do?" Mike complained.

"Yeah," Harris agreed. "He already managed to do everything we was going to do to him." The two boys looked at Casper the leader of the group.

Casper, what a stupid name. It brought up images of that stupid friendly ghost which Casper Hall was anything but. Well, Sam wished he was dead, but certainly not a ghost. Just dead, in a hole in the ground preferably more than six feet. Six feet bad, ten feet good.

Sam had been sitting in the puddle, cold water soaking into socks and pants and the lower bit of his shirt. I wonder if it's possible for your butt to freeze off.

His lips were beginning to tremble with cold when Casper finally made his move. He pushed Sam flat on his back completely into the puddle and then spit into the puddle at Sam's feet. Mike followed suit and Harris . . . tried, but the hocker didn't quite make it off his lip and just sort of just rolled down his face which was worse to watch than the actual saliva floating in the puddle along with Sam.

This disgusted Harris as much as Sam and he quickly wiped his mouth out on his blazer sleeve. "Freak!" He shouted before turning and dashing after his friends.

"Great! Now, my foot is going to squish!" Sam grumbled, picking his backpack and heading for home.

Squish, squish, squish. "Shut up, you bloody shoe. You know what, screw shoes!" He reached down and pulled his shoes off. He opened the door to a neat London townhouse and stepped inside, peeling off his shoes and dropping them in a corner.

"Sam, is that you?" his mom called out.

Sam stuck his head in the kitchen. "Yes." He replied.

A rather pregnant Amara studied her oldest. "Sam, honey, why are you wet?"

"There was a pool nearby. I went for a dip." He replied honestly with a shrug.

"Take a shower and get some new clothes on," the former Princess ordered. Sam slunk out of the room to obey. "And don't spend all day in the shower either. Your father's bringing dinner home in half an hour!"

"Thank God," he mumbled at the last. Whenever Amara was pregnant, her taste buds were constantly on 'odd tastes good,' and his father couldn't cook very well but was the lesser of two evils that was for sure, but having food made someone else entirely was a much better deal.

Half an hour later, a damp Sam sat at the kitchen table, staring at his two year old brother Kyle who was making a series of strange faces, which was pretty much the only thing Kyle was good for in Sam, the older brother's degrading opinion.

"AAaaaaaAAAAAAaaaah," Kyle screeched.

"Shut up," Sam yelled, kicking Kyle's high chair.

"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!" Kyle screeched again.

"Go to bed!" Kick.

"Achooooooo!"

"OH so now you're trying to get me sick, huh?" Kick.

"SKAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"

"Go away!" Kick.

"Sam, stopping kicking your brother," Amara ordered.

Sam glared at the little noisemaker and gently for one time, for good measure, kicked him and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms.

There was the creak of the front door (because all house doors are creaky, no matter how much you oil them) and Jono stepped into the kitchen. "Food," he announced, dropping a few bags in the middle of the table.

Sam dug into one of the rare edible meals he got during his mother's pregnancies with delight.

"So, Sam, how was school?" Jono asked.

Sam shrugged. "All right. I read someone's file today, suffers from, uh . . . acute paranoia. He's funny. You can tell him stuff and he'd be just like 'are you serious?' Oh, yeah. Parent Teacher conferences next Monday. Should call the school, to set up an appointment," he rambled in a nearly monotone voice.

"All right," Jono agreed, attempting to intercept his younger son's spoon that he was waving around wildly sending mashed potatoes flying out in every direction.

Sam kicked the highchair again.

"AEEEEEEEEEIIIIIIIII!" Kyle howled.

"Shut up!"

.:Next Monday:.

Sam sat on the couch, watching his mother give instructions to his babysitter, Hilary.

"I just put Kyle down for a nap, he should just sleep the whole time we're gone, and Sam just does his own thing so really you don't need to worry about him too much," Amara explained the teenaged girl that lived three houses down. She smiled brightly and nodded her understanding, blond ponytail bobbing.

Jono checked his watch. They need to have left about five minutes ago. "Amara," he lilted.

"That's pretty much it. We'll probably be gone for about an hour, and Sam, be good." She ordered planting a quick kiss on the top of his head. Sam did not move or say a word. Amara bid Hilary good-bye and hurried out the door. There was the click that signaled the front door was being closed.

Hilary turned to face Sam, still smiling brightly. "So, Sam, what do you like to do for fun?"

"I like to kill bugs with sticks," Sam replied monotonously.

Hilary paused. "Oh, okay. So are you hungry or anything? Get you something to eat?"

Sam looked at her. "No."

"Oh, that's cool then." She fell silent for a moment. "So how old are you again?"

"I am nine."

"That's cool. So do you like school?"

Sam sighed heavily but answered flatly, "Driving a rusty nail through my foot is more fun."

"Ouch. That sounds painful."

"Painful for you, fun for me."

"Uhm, okay."

"Has anyone ever told you have a very high and nasal and annoying voice?" Sam asked.

Hilary blinked and decided that this was certainly the oddest babysitting job she had ever had.

From upstairs there was the sudden wail of a baby. "You should go pick that up or something," Sam told Hilary, picking up the remote and turning on the TV.

Mrs. Maples sat behind her desk, a tiny little old lady with blue hair who looked innocent enough. A large plate of perfectly arranged and perfectly baked chocolate chip cookies sat on the edge of her desk.

She smiled revealing a mouth of pearly dentures. "So you're Sam's parents."

"Yes," Jono asked glancing at the cookies covertly that were glistening on the plate.

"Sam's very bright. He does very well in class, but he doesn't talk. Cookie, dear?" She offered.

"Thanks," Jono said, helping himself to cookie, biting into the chocolatey goodness. "This is really good."

"Don't talk with your mouth full."

Jono nodded and swallowed. "Right."

"Doesn't talk?" Amara repeated. Suddenly, her bottom lip began to tremble and tears began streaming down her face.

Uh-oh, Jono thought. "Honey, calm down. It's not that bad. We already knew he doesn't talk in school. He barely talks at home." He dug in his pocket and produced a wrinkled tissue for his wife. "Amara, honey, calm down."

Amara took the Kleenex from her husband and blew her nose. "I'm sorry."

"It's the hormones, dear, I know."

After a few moments, Amara managed to calm down. "Please keep going, Mrs. Maples." She dabbed at her eyes.

"As I said, Sam is very quiet. I can barely get more than one syllable out of him at a time. He answers every time he's asked, but other than that he's selectively mute. I think he might need some special attention from a professional."

Amara bit her bottom lip and clutched the tissue tighter.

"And it results in a small amount of teasing."

"Teasing?" Amara whimpered.

Should've brought more tissues, Jono thought, putting an arm around his wife and trying to calm her down.

"Amara, honey, it'll be all right. Everybody gets teased at least once in their life. I got teased all the time!"

Amara held the Kleenex over her nose, "that's not helping!" She blew her nose.

Jono looked at Mrs. Maples, "Do you have any tissues?"

Mrs. Maples pulled out a jumbo box of Kleenex and set it down in front of Amara. "Here, dearie, take the box."

"Are you sure?" Amara sniffled.

"Yes, dearie, I'm sure."

"Thank you." Amara blew her nose again.

Jono sat, thinking. Oh, Jono I want more children!

One's enough honey don't you think?

Oh, no Jono, two more!

Three? We can barely handle Sam!

I want more children!

Fine!

I regret that. I regret the first one, which is why we're here.

Mrs. Maples clasped her hands together. "I suggest you enroll Sam in a play group with children his own age."

Amara stopped crying to stare at Mrs. Maples. "What?"

"A playgroup. It would do him good."

"Sam doesn't 'play' per say. He, uh, skulks. Is that good word, Amara?"

"Yeah that would describe it perfectly."

"Well, I suggest you try. He is very intelligent." Mrs. Maples held her palms up.

"Thank you, Mrs. Maples," Amara said, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. "I'll see what I can do."

"I'm really sorry Mrs. Starsmore. It was an emergency. My parents dropped her off," Hilary apologized, motioning to the dark haired little girl who sat on the floor. She had shaggy black hair that hung shaggily to her chin. She was also apparently having a staring contest with Sam as they both staring at each other and not blinking.

"It's okay," Amara assured her. "Jono, will you pay her?"

"Where's my wallet?"

"I don't know. It's not my wallet."

Hilary looking relived stuck her head in the living room. "Regan, it's time to go."

Regan and Sam stood up still staring at each other and still completely silent. "I'm leaving," Regan announced.

"All right," Sam noted. "It was fun."

"Yes."

"Does that make us friends?"

"Maybe."

"So we're almost friends?"

"I guess so."

Amara looked at Jono, "Give her some extra money."


	6. Frostington

Name: Juliet Elizabeth Worthington

Grade: 8

Father's name: Warren Kenneth Worthington III

Mother's name: Emma Grace Frost-Worthington

School: Rockford's Academy

Juliet poked at her Chicken Coeur don Bleu. She didn't like Chicken Coeur don Bleu. Ham and chicken should not be layered in with one another. Gross.

Not that she had much of an appetite in the first place, being with the Frosts and Worthington families could make one physically ill.

Both sets of her grandparents sat on opposite sides of the table glaring at each other, their child, and their child's spouse. However, they looked at their grandchildren with something akin to affection. Warren Kenneth Worthington the IV whom everyone called Ren was busy tearing through his cheesy broccoli and trying not to meet anyone's eyes. His strategy was if I don't look at them, they might not notice me. Nothing could ruin Ren's appetite, however.

"Why, Juliet, you've hardly touched your dinner," Grandmother Katherine, Warren's mother said.

All eyes were on her immediately. "I'm not hungry," she said slowly.

"Nonsense!" Grandfather Warren's strident voice rang out. "Growing children need to eat. Look at Ren, now there's a healthy appetite."

Juliet didn't say what she thought of Ren's healthy appetite—it was disgusting.

"Leave her alone," Grandmother Hazel, Emma's mother, chimed in.

Oh no, Juliet mentally moaned. Not again!

Emma looked just as pained as her daughter and her father's eye was twitching, and Ren came to the rescue. "Hey, you should tell them about that thing at school."

She glared at her older brother.

"Thing?" Warren asked his daughter lightly. "What're you two talking about?"

"Juliet's getting an award."

Ren, I hate your life, Juliet thought.

"Oh for what?" Warren asked.

"Something in music," Juliet muttered. "It's not a big deal."

"Whatever it is, it'll look good on college applications," Grandpa Winston added.

Juliet didn't think that any college would care about her first place vocals. "Sure."

"Is that anyway to speak to your elders. I know in my day we had respect for our elders."

Ren pantomimed stabbing himself with a fork. "This is your fault," she hissed at him.

"Sorry, but it's better than the screaming match," he replied quietly while the eldest Worthingtons and Frosts talked about the good old days. All four of them managing to get along for once.

"Maybe I should tell about that can of coke you got for being able to belch the alphabet forwards and backwards."

"Tha'll look good on a college application," Ren retorted mocking Winston's voice.

Juliet bit back a laugh and kicked her brother under the table. "Anything else interesting?" Angel prodded.

"Uhm, there's parent-teacher conferences on the third."

Ren shook his head and slid his finger across his throat and made the sound that went with it.

"The third?" Winston stroked his chin for a moment. "Warren would you mind if we tagged along?"

"Actually, we-"

"We'd very much like to be part of Juliet's education."

"As would we," Warren added.

"But—"

Juliet closed her eyes and slouched down in her chair.

"Don't sit like, Juliet," Hazel admonished, "you'll ruin your back."

You're ruining my life! I can ruin my back! Juliet thought, straightening her back.

.:The Third:.

Mr. Marceaux eyed the, uh, group before him. They had apparently decided that the whole family needed to be present to talk to the Home Ec teacher. He took a deep breath and tried to relax himself before confronting the mass.

"Hello," he greeted trying not to sound terrified. "Can I ask who all of you are?"

The youngest man jumped to answer, "I'm Juliet's father, Warren the third, and these are my parents, Warren the second and Katherine. This is my wife, Emma Frost, and her parents, Winston and Hazel."

"Pleased to meet you," Mr. Marceaux offered his best fake smile.

"Er, yes," Old Warren as Mr. Marceaux would mentally refer to him, chuckled and then looked around the room. "So I am to assume that you teach home economics."

Well, duuuuuuuuh, Mr. Marceaux thought, there's five stoves, five sinks, two dishwashers, and a washer and dryer and an iron. But instead of saying that he simply offered his best fake smile again and replied. "Yes."

"Fascinating," Old Warren mused.

That was sarcastic wasn't it you rich old fart? Mr. Marceaux thought still smiling.

"Why are we here again?" Winston asked.

Old Warren looked at the other man, "Because, you pompous windbag, our grandchild's education depends on it."

"I'm just home ec," Mr. Marceaux volunteered. "It's not really that vital."

However, both old men ignored him and began to fight. Their wives attempted to calm them down only to be dragged into the fray themselves, and looking like embarrassed teenagers were Emma and Young Warren.

Emma turned slowly to face her husband, giving him a look that clearly said: I told you we should have left them at the gas station, but no! Who decided against that? Hmmm?

"I'm sorry," Warren mouthed.

Emma rolled her eyes while Mr. Marceaux stood watching them with amusement, horror, and vague delight.

And then a timer went off.

Nonchalantly, Mr. Marceaux wandered off to the stoves and pulled out a tray of chocolate chip cookies and began to scrape them onto the wire cooling rack. He heard someone scream and the sound of a fist connecting with face and more yells, but he pleasantly continued his task, lost in the world of baked goods.

He walked back out to the other room and set the cookies down on a table and then yelled, "Cookies!"

Silence.

"Help yourself. Careful they may still be a little hot."

Everyone stared at him.

"What you don't like cookies?"

Young Warren reached out and took one. "These are really good!" He exclaimed.

"Thank you," Mr. Marceaux smiled for real. "Here, take them with you," he offered, sweeping the cookies into a small paper bag and holding them out to the assembled crowd. "Enjoy them as you visit the rest of Juliet's teachers."

They left all exclaiming over the cookies and Mr. Marceaux sank down into a chair. "Oh, Jesus Christ." His cell phone vibrated in his back pocket. He took it out. "Hey, Mel . . . Oh no, I'm done. The last batch just walked out. Let me tell you about these freaks. It's too good not to . . ."


	7. Kurtsy

Name: Erik Wagner

Grade: 2

Father's name: Kurt Wagner

Mother's name: Elisabeth "Betsy" Braddock

School: Black Forest Elementary School

Erik Wagner shifted uncomfortably in his seat, sighing. His eyes flicked to the clock on the wall. One foot hit the floor, bored. Bored! Bored!

Ten more minutes until recess.

Ten more minutes until recess.

Ten, wait, nine! Nine more minutes until recess.

He couldn't wait.

Mr. Muller was watching the class with a sort of why do I even bother look while he meanwhile went on explaining the two's table even though he knew no one listening.

He sighed. "All right."

"We can go out early?" Erik asked, practically lunging over the top of his desk.

"Not quite." Erik deflated and crawled back into his seat. Mr. Muller pulled a stack of paper off his desk and began passing them out to his students.

"What are these?" Someone asked.

"These are notices that you need to give you parents for parent-teacher conferences," Mr. Muller explained patiently. "Have your parents fill out the bottom of the form and bring it back to me by Friday. You won't," the bell rang and immediately every child leapt to his or her feet in a mass stampeding for the door. Mr. Muller had an odd idea that he knew what Mufasa had felt like while being trampled by the wildebeests.

Erik was skipping home from school happily, humming a song. He unlatched the gate and bounded up to his door. "Hi, mother!" He greeted turning off his image inducer and leaping into a chair at the kitchen table.

"What have I told you about leaping in the house?" Betsy asked her son.

"But you let Dad do it," Erik pointed out grabbing at the cookies set on a plate in front of him.

"That's because your father has very bad manners," Betsy told her son, setting a glass of chocolate milk in front of her son.

"I do not," Kurt objected.

"Yes you do." Betsy retorted. "What are you doing?" She asked her older son who was bending over backwards in an attempt to open his backpack.

"There's a note in here somewhere."

"About what?" Betsy asked.

"I don't remember that's why I'm giving it to you."

"Ah. Smart move."

"Found it!" He said, waving it proudly. Betsy pulled it from her son's hands and read it over quickly.

"What does it say?" Kurt asked.

"Teacher wants to talk with us."

"Why?" Kurt prodded glancing over at his son who was happily shoving cookies in his face.

"Well it doesn't look like anything too serious." Betsy said, managing to rescue an untouched cookie from her Hoover of a son and placing it on the highchair in front of Derek.

Derek began to gum at the cookie viciously. "I can't wait til you get teeth," Betsy muttered.

"I think he's already starting to get his fangs," Kurt said beginning to wiggle his finger towards Derek's mouth.

Derek bit down on his father's hand. "Ow!" Kurt. "I am not the cookie! Cookies are not blue!"

"Some of them are." Betsy pointed out.

"Don't give the kid ideas!"

Derek giggled evilly, a sound that sounded thoroughly disturbing coming from a one year old, and began to bat his no-turn no-spill cup around the high chair table.

"He takes after you," Kurt told Betsy.

Betsy rolled her eyes. "Sure, honey."

Mr. Muller surveyed the couple before him. Erik's mother was Asian looking and had very long, very purple hair. The man was more normal looking and had petite elfish features that Erik obviously took after.

"Uhm, Mr. and Mrs. Wagner," he smiled.

"Hello," Kurt greeted smiling.

Mr. Muller gave them a basic over view of Erik's general school abilities. He was doing well in all his subjects and then he started on a list of Erik's misdemeanors. The list took fifteen minutes to go through. The entire time Betsy kept shooting slightly evil glances at Kurt.

"Mr. and Mrs. Wagner, I also have a very important question . . . does you son have an extra appendage?"

"Extra appendage?" Betsy echoed distantly, glancing concernedly at Kurt.

Kurt puffed himself up with righteous indignation. "An appendage? Our child? Of course not!"

Mr. Muller didn't see where the 'of course' came from. He hadn't seen an odder couple in his life and if there was anyone in the world whose child was likely to have a tail, Mr. Gregory Simon Muller hadn't had the pleasure of meeting them yet. He licked his lips and tried to think of anything else to say.

"Well, I wouldn't think that he actually did, but I just thought that I should bring it to your attention," he said carefully, not wanting to anger either of them.

Both of them became slightly less menacing. Betsy even went so far as to smile at Mr. Muller. "It's an honest mistake. Erik gets it from his father," she patted her husband on the head. "And now we have to be going."

"Good-bye," he replied as Betsy grabbed Kurt's arm and dragged him from the room. The door swung shut behind them although neither of them touched it.

Mr. Muller shook his head and rubbed his eyes. "I need a vacation although medication sounds pretty good too, some strong medication."


End file.
